


Glimpses of a Life Remade

by aelie



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Short Stories
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 16:09:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6572959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aelie/pseuds/aelie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short stories involving Tempie both before, during, and after Keep to the Stars.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Glimpses of a Life Remade

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Keep to the Stars](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4651176) by [MaryDragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaryDragon/pseuds/MaryDragon). 



> Here is where I will throw any short stories involving Tempie.

While wealthy merchants were not an unusual occurrence in Minanter Hollow, actual live nobility were a different story. Actual live nobility  _ with money _ ? Every store owner in town was sweeping their entry way and scrubbing their windows the second news hit town from the outlying villages. Some grand Orlesian marquis was going through town with a very large entourage, and it was late enough in the day that one could safely assume they’d stay in town that night.

 

When the caravan arrived in town, few were surprised that the noble chose the Three Horseshoes for his overnight accommodation. The Bannermans had a reputation for the best beds in town. Their blankets and sheets ( _ they had actual sheets! _ ) were always clean and had no bugs, the floors were always swept and fresh rushes put out, and the stables were worthy of any noble’s horse. Some visitors even swore that even the inns of Tantervale and Starkhaven couldn’t compare. And most astonishingly of all, the rates were such that even more common people could stay for at least a night (When asked how this could be possible, Tempie, the landlady, would start talking about numbers and figures and “profit margins”  and most people, instantly regretting asking the question, would tune out rather quickly). The inn portion of the Three Horseshoes very rarely had a vacancy, and the pub was always full to bursting. This was hardly surprising considering that most of the meals on the “menu” (a word that even people in Minanter Hollow barely understood) were completely foreign, but still almost universally lauded as “bizarre, but very good.” There even was food “to-take-out,” a concept that had baffled the locals at first, but had quickly become a favorite for the dock workers, apprentices, and shopkeepers.

 

The night that the Marquis de Churneau arrived, the pub was spilling into the streets with people who just, you know,  _ happened _ to chose that night to have a bite at the Three. It had nothing to do with wanting to observe actual Orlesian nobility and perhaps even catch a glimpse of the famous Grand Game. Observers may have been disappointed to miss  the witty repartee of a verbal duel or a salacious attempt at poisoning, but they were indeed satisfied to a grand display of more sumptuous wealth than most would ever see in their entire lifetime. The Marquis’ servants were clad in fabrics that made Aiden, the local tailor, nearly faint when he realized their quality. The Marquis himself was a marvel of Orlesian finery. His doublet and hose were of luxuriant crimson velvet slashed with gold satin and encrusted with exquisite gems that glittered in the lamplight. His mask was undoubtedly made of some precious metal, and the etching around the eyes was exquisite. He sat at a table in the Three Horseshoes famed (well, locally famed) bay window as if he were holding court. None of the locals were anywhere close to him. Goody (so-and-so) had tried, but had been silently rebuffed by the invisible waves of snobbery emanating from the chief valet.

 

Tempie, meanwhile, just thought it was stupid, and said as much to her husband Cade, who had paled and frantically hushed her, fearing that one of the Orlesians might hear the comment. Tempie rolled her eyes and went back to the kitchen to help Nicola, Merrick, Bevo, and Marta deal with the massive deluge of orders. 

 

An hour later, though, Ella, the elven bar maid, came rushing back with a request from the Marquis to speak with whoever had created “this… interesting combination of food.” Tempie took off her cooking apron and strolled into the pub. Or, rather, she tried to stroll, but there was no room in the crush of bodies for more than a shuffle Surprisingly (though she should not have been surprised), there was a small radius of space surrounding the noble. Tempie tripped over Dirk the Cobbler’s foot as she approached the space, after which, she gave a dirty look. She turned to face the Marquis.

 

“You wished to speak with me?” she said over the din. There was a gasp to her left from one of the servants, and Tempie could  _ feel _ the shocked silence settle over the room. She looked around with a raised eyebrow. The penny dropped and the baleful glares from the masks made sense.

 

“Oh,” she frowned. “You wished to speak with me…  _ my lord? _ ” She prayed that it was the correct form of address. The retainers eased their glares a bit, so she assumed so.

 

“You are the one that creates this extraordinary dish, no?” the Marquis said, gesturing to his empty plate, which had once contained the exotic sounding dish called “chicken fried steak.”

 

“I am?” Tempie replied, curious as to where this was going.

 

“I find myself most impressed,” the Marquis said cooly. The masked observers and non-masked observers alike began to titter. “I wonder if perhaps I could tempt you to share this delight with my cook.” He gestured magnanimously to a man wearing an obviously for-show kitchen apron. The man bowed.

 

“Uh…” Tempie stuttered, “I guess? It’s not too hard to figure out.”

 

The Marquis’ obviously rouged lips curled into a smile. “Excellent.” 

  
Tempie crossed her arms. “Anything else?” The baleful glares were back. Tempie uncrossed her arms and attempted to look ingratiating. “...my lord?”

 

The Marquis gestured for her to come closer. Seeing that the show was over, the locals began their conversations again, and a pleasant fog of noise surrounded them. Tempie scooted around the table and took the seat next to the primly painted man.

 

“The elf,” the Marquis said, waving towards a frazzled Ella. “She is your servant?”

 

“She works for me, yes,” Tempie replied, a slimy feeling beginning to worm its way through her gut.

 

“How much?”

 

Tempie blinked. “How much for what?”

 

“How much for her tonight?” the Marquis repeated patiently, as if talking to a child.

 

Tempie blinked again, horror dawning. “You mean…” she stuttered, “for her to be sent to your room?”

 

The Marquis nodded, proud that the connection had finally been made.

 

Tempie froze as her mind ran with what was being asked of her. She started to reply a couple of times, but each time words failed her. “Have you…” she began slowly, “have you already paid for tonight?”

 

She couldn’t see his eyebrows furrow in confusion, but she would have put money that they were indeed meeting above his nose. 

 

“I have?” he replied.

 

She held up a finger and shot up to shove her way through the crowd. She went to the bar, exchanged a few heated words with Cade, grabbed a small pouch, and started back to the Marquis. Those who were regulars to the Three recognized the look on her face and immediately backed out of the way, but not too far. That look always meant someone was about to get it, and Tempie was nothing if not entertaining when ripping someone a new asshole. When she reached the Marquis’ table, she made a show of opening the bag and carefully counting out three gold coins. She flung them on the table.

 

“Get out,” she said.

 

The pub went completely silent.

 

The Marquis stared in disbelief. “Excuse me?”

 

“Get. Out,” Tempie repeated, enunciating her words with care. “And don’t come back.”

 

It was so quiet that everyone could hear the Marquis’ jaw drop. “How dare you-”

 

“You do not want to finish that sentence,” Tempie snapped. “Now get your things, and get out of my pub.”

 

“I will not-”

 

“BEVO,” Tempie shouted. The locals, knowing this routine, created a path from the kitchen door, not wanting to be in the way. The retainers, who had begun to swarm around their queen (king?) bee, were oblivious to the fact that seven feet of muscled qunari was now approaching. 

 

“Ma’am?” the deep rumbling voice of the pastry chef inquired politely. The Orlesians standing in front of him almost fell over each other trying to get out of the way. It didn’t matter that said-qunari was wearing a cooking apron and had puffs of flour all over himself. His skill at looming was enough to make even the drunkest think twice.

 

Tempie spoke without breaking eye contact with the Marquis. “This gentleman here was inquiring about how much it would cost for Ella to be sent to his room tonight.”

  
If possible, the feeling of silent  _ looming _ only increased.

 

“My thoughts exactly, buddy,” Tempie snarled. “Please do encourage him to make himself scarce.”

 

The Marquis was now visibly trembling, although whether from anger or fear of the large man, Tempie couldn’t tell. “I will not be…” he trailed off as Bevo moved to stand next to him. 

 

Bevo said nothing. He just stared.

 

The Marquis swallowed hard. He had one last ace up his sleeve. “Three gold pieces is hardly enough! I paid nearly 15!”

 

Tempie looked at the appalled servants surrounding her.. “Your people are welcome to stay here. You, however, are not. Bevo?”

 

The qunari placed a hand on the Marquis’ shoulder, almost causing the man to crumple. Nothing was said for a moment, and then the noble straightened up, his temporary loss in ego over.

 

“Antoine! Gather our things! We leave tonight!” he shouted. The chief valet hopped to immediately, ordering the masked masses to begin their exodus. Tempie and the other locals watched impassively as the monstrous gears of etiquette swung into action. The Marquis himself huffed forward to stare down Tempie. “I will ruin you for this,” he snarled.

 

Tempie’s face was suddenly sugar and sweetness. “You will try,” she chirruped. The Marquis blew past her in a frothing rage, screeching about how he would find alternate accommodations for the night. Tempie simply looked for Peter, the town message boy, and nodded towards the blustering noble. Peter, recognizing the signal, slipped out the back to run to the other two inns in town and inform them of the goings-on. The Marquis would not have a bed that night. The other innkeepers in town may not have been fond of Tempie, but everyone loved Ella. 

 

The show over, conversations started back up with a more decided tone of “did that just really happen?” Tempie rolled her shoulders, looking out the window at the insane shuffling happening outside. She shook her head. “Bless his heart.”


End file.
